Fated Grays

Alas, alas, made to face the doom,
The traumas, loss and pain all gloom,
Six months later still at the same pace,
The dismal state of our Nam insane.

O grim is the irony of fate,
When the evils are still strong of late.
Their words deceitful, they roll on tongues,
and run off fingers smoother than water;
They take shapes of all vessel kind,
tools of manipulation of all kind.

Tell us now, how is it fair?
When our lives are just a gasp for air,
How our blood and kins would've felt,
To be preyed, played and trapped,
like they were by the valley monsters,
Or is it just our fated grays?

A tragedy, I think so,
Our words and pens can only do so much,
Helpless are we while they, heartless,
Still we'll fight with our grief stricken hearts.